


Twentyfourth

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Christmas Eve, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve at Baker Street, which involves a punch to the face, mulled wine and a mince pie disaster, tales of Christmas past, dubious invitations, a tub of lard, and ... well ... shagging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twentyfourth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minijaxter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minijaxter/gifts), [skumring_katt](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=skumring_katt), [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts), [Icanwritesee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/gifts).



> As this is the last instalment, I'd like to gift this story to a few people with whom I corresponded via the comment section over the course of the year. Their kind words and appreciative comments kept me going, so, special seasons greetings go out to Minijaxter, Notjustmom, skumring_katt, and Icanwritesee.  
> Besides, I'd like to thank anyone who read my stories, commented, or left kudos. I hope you felt well entertained – and if not, I'm sorry to have bothered you.  
> Merry Christmas, have a nice and pleasant holiday and a happy new year!  
>  **Update:**  
>  The lovely **Notjustmom** wrote a kind of morning after for this one, which can be found here:  
>  https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516429

After throwing out the carol singers (totally off tune, how anyone with such limited talent in music dared to inflict their poor voices upon the population of London was beyond Sherlock), binning Mrs Hudson's Mince Pies and burning the accumulated Christmas cards together with a twig of mistletoe, Sherlock is just about to stuff his unopened presents from satisfied customers, his parents and Mycroft into a big black plastic bag he intends to leave in front of the nearest Centrepoint charity shop, when he hears John climbing up the stairs.

He is laden with bags and parcels, which he drops onto and beneath their kitchen table with an exhausted sigh before entering their living room.

“I just met a bunch of obviously perturbed kids who swore never again to ring the bell at 221b. Do you, by any chance, had a hand in this?”

“Well, if you are talking about the absolutely ungifted choir of greedy and ridiculously dressed up children who tried to destroy my tympanic membrane with their shrieking, I am quite proud to confess that I felt it my obligation to set them straight and tell them off. Honestly, someone not as patient as me might actually shoot them for trespassing and inflicting GBH.”

“Sherlock, they are just kids!”

“Well, the sooner they learn their lesson, the better.”

“It's a Christmas tradition. I thought them rather cute.”

“Did you hear them sing?”

“No, but...”

“Then don't presume to make a judgement.”

John huffs but Sherlock ignores him and strides over into the kitchen, eyeing John's purchases scornfully.

“What's all this stuff for?” he asks brusquely.

“Sherlock, even you must be aware that it's Christmas Eve.”

“Of course. Hence the carols. I might distance myself from such superfluous festivities but, as there is no escaping the Christmas frenzy, I know precisely which date it is today. But that doesn't explain why you bought this whole… caboodle.”

“Because of the Christmas party.” Their roles seem rather reversed. Usually, it's Sherlock talking to John as if he's conversing with a rather dimwitted child.

Sherlock gives John a look that had lesser man scuttle in search for a place to hide at least for the foreseeable future, then inquires in a dangerously slow and precise diction: “What Christmas party?”

“Sherlock, we talked about this. I asked you if you were ok with inviting a few people over on Christmas Eve and you agreed.”

“When?”

“Last Wednesday.”

“Last Wednesday?” For most of that day, Sherlock had been absorbed in an experiment involving human colon used as a murder weapon in a gruesome series of strangulations. He'd been aware that John had been talking to him but hadn't paid much attention, as he had been sure that John was just tediously admonishing him for washing and drying 60 ft. of bowel in their bathroom, stringing the grey urticular guts from wall to wall on hooks originally designated for a cloth line. He might have waved his hand and nodded at some point in this fairly one-sided conversation. Could that have been taken as his approval of a Christmas party? Could John really be this insensitive?

“Yes, last Wednesday, when you were amusing yourself with … whatever … in our bathroom, I asked you if you were amenable to invite our friends and you indicated you were fine with it.”

Amused himself? John had obviously no idea what it meant to clean 60 ft. of human colon of its ...well … contents but now is probably not the right time to enlighten him. Instead, Sherlock asks: “What friends, precisely?” in a suspicious tone.

“Well, Mrs Hudson, of course, then Mike, Molly, Greg...”

“Who?”

“Greg Lestrade, DI. You remember the guy from NSY who frequently calls you in on cases?”

“His first name's Greg?” Sherlock seems doubtful.

“Yes.”

“You sure?” he's still incredulous.

“Yes!”

“Well, who'd thought...”

John mumbles something incomprehensible but Sherlock is now quite alert and wants to know who else will grace their dwellings this evening. “Sorry?”

“... and your brother.” John rushes, his fists clenching and unclenching as if manning up for a fight.

Sherlock is silent for a whole minute, blinking rapidly, before exclaiming: “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Mycroft, your brother, will come as well, if his schedule allows for him being absent from his desk.”

“Are you insane?” Sherlock's voice is calm but his eyes burn, the pulse in his throat hammers visibly and a vein starts protruding on his forehead. “How dare you...” Sherlock hisses, before stomping off back into the living room, throwing himself dramatically on the couch after giving their innocent coffee table a vehement kick.

“He's your brother, Sherlock!” John has followed his flatmate and tries his best to reign in his mercurial temper in a brave attempt to protect the rest of their furniture. It might be of some use in the evening. “It's Christmas. A family should be together at Christmas.”

“Just shut the fuck up, John, will you.” Sherlock yells. He has turned to face the room again. “That is sentimental bullshit and you, of all people, should know better!” Sherlock glares at him furiously, his teeth bared in an unpleasant grin. “Or did you invite your sister? No, I thought so. How about your parents, then?”

“That is a low blow, even for you, Sherlock.”

“Well, and I thought this was all about family reunions in the spirit of forgiveness, acceptance and understanding?” Sherlock is sitting up, fixing John with a piercing gaze. His voice drips with false cordiality.

“If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I swear I'll punch you in the face.” John's voice is low but firm.

“Ha! Just because your sister is an alcoholic, that shouldn't disqualify her to attend. Molly likes a drink as well. And regarding your parents: I'm dying to know why you haven't spoken to them in over ten years. Could it be...”

John lunges forward, throwing all his 5 ft. 6 in height and good ten stones in weight at the resident arsehole on their sofa. Sherlock is actually taken by surprise and John lands a good punch to his right cheekbone. Both men freeze as blood starts to dribble freely from Sherlock's nose.

“John?!” Sherlock can't believe this is happening. Drops of bright red blood splash onto his grey t-shirt while he looks up at his friend, confused and obviously shocked.

“Sorry, I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I lost it. I'm... it's just… I'm...” John trails off, then fetches a tea towel from their kitchen to wipe away the blood on Sherlock's face.

“John.” Sherlock whispers, as the man sits next to him on the cushions, brushing gently over his face. John looks sad and startled, obviously perturbed by the fact that he just hit his best friend. Sherlock tries to reason with him. “I didn't mean to...”

“Yes, you did. And you are probably right. But, you know, simply because my family is so utterly fucked up, I thought it would be rather nice to have our friends around. As a kind of surrogate. And your brother really cares very much about you, that's why I felt he should be invited, too. Of course, I know nothing about your history with him, so perhaps that was a bit… infringing, but then I thought, the two of you… you are very similar, you know? Not like me and Harry. All that bickering… in my – admittedly unqualified – opinion, it's a sign of affection.”

“You think so?” Sherlock looks at him quite intensely.

“Yes.” They stare at each other, John's hand still on Sherlock's face. After a long moment John suddenly leans in, only halting when his mouth is just an inch away from Sherlock's, the detective can feel warm breath ghost over his lips as John says: “I'll stop if you want me to.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes.

“You want me to stop, Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallows. His face feels hot, his body shivers.

“No, god, no.”

And then they kiss and it tastes of blood and cigarettes and sweet milky tea and it's mind-blowing and calming at the same time. 

They kiss until they have to break for breath, still pressing their foreheads together and John giggles while Sherlock smiles a giddy smile.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“Well, with you, of course it had to be like this.” John answers, still chuckling.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock sounds uncertain.

“No gentle wooing, or even a bit of dating but a fight and a punch in the face.”

“Problem?”

“Not at all. Saves time and money.”

“Now you're talking.”

They kiss again, until John carefully entangles himself.

“We should get ready. You need to change. The guests will arrive in about half an hour. But if you don't want to join us...”

“Oh, no, I last celebrated Christmas with my brother when I was eleven and that was … quite amusing, in a way.” Sherlock's eerie smile makes John very uneasy but now it's too late to regret his invitation.

As Sherlock gets up, John suddenly sniffs. “What's this smell? Did you scorch something?” 

Sherlock just shrugs and makes his way towards his bedroom. A wise decision, as he hears John shout after him: “By the way, did Mrs Hudson bring her Mince Pies upstairs? She promised to make some. I'm actually quite keen on them.”

\------------

The evening goes better than anticipated. Well, at least after Sherlock had explained the whereabouts of the mistletoe, at which John had laughed, before coming across the remnants of his beloved Mince Pies in the bin. This discovery had been received … not in a very adult manner, as John had been nearly in tears, starring down at the sad crumbles. Sherlock had pointed out that some of the pasties weren't past rescue but John had only looked at him in horror, then closed the lid and instructed Sherlock to tell everybody that the pies had been so tremendously delicious that he and John hadn't been able to resist and ate them all. Sherlock had raised an eyebrow at this very transparent white lie but John had made it clear that if he wanted to commence what they'd started on the sofa earlier, he'd be expected to stick to their story.

Mrs Hudson beamed at them and even patted Sherlock on his sore cheek and stomach. Molly and Mike talked shop, while Lestrade chatted pleasantly with John about football and rugby. As the evening wore on, Sherlock took up his violin and played some proper carols, until a knock on the door silenced him.

And then his brother darkened their doorway, dressed, as always, immaculate in a charcoal three piece suit, sporting a badge of holly on his sleeve as a concession to the festive season. The room fell silent for about ten seconds until John stepped forward and greeted Mycroft, offering him a glass of champagne, which Sherlock's brother took thankfully, without commenting on the rather cheap vintage (he was obviously in need of something to calm his nerves).

The two brother's just nodded a greeting at each other but then Mycroft remarked: “Were you playing 'Oh come, all ye faithful'? You, a staunch atheist?”

“Aw, Mr Holmes, but it's such a lovely tune!” Mrs Hudson chimed fondly.

“If you say so.” Sherlock's brother conceded politely, bowing his head slightly. He wandered around the sitting room until he suddenly paused and gazed at a book lying flipped open on Sherlock's desk. “So, you liked it, brother dear. I hoped as much.”

Sherlock smiles a tight smile. He'd been grateful indeed when John had started to empty the black rubbish bag _(“You should at least open them before giving them away.” - “I just wanted to be charitable.” - “No, you wanted to be stubborn.”)_ , thereby unearthing Mycroft's present, for it had been a first edition of Poe's _'Tales of Mystery and Imagination'_ , which Sherlock had always loved. He was kind of moved that Mycroft had remembered and bothered. The parcel had also contained some Kenyan Blue Mountain coffee for John, which Sherlock had thought of as rather extravagant. But as he would benefit from it as well, John had been allowed to keep it.

Sherlock was saved from answering when Mrs Hudson served her mulled wine, which consisted mostly of Brandy and lightened the mood considerably. Mycroft engaged in conversation with Lestrade and both got on extremely well. After a third helping of punch, Mycroft actually started to recite all the verses of 'Adeste fideles' (in Latin, of course), until Molly begged Sherlock to play it again, accompanied by his brother's surprisingly fine tenor:

_'Adeste fideles, laeti triumphantes,_  
_Venite, venite in Bethlehem._  
_Natum videte regem angelorum:_  
_Venite adoremus, venite adoremus,_  
_Venite adoremus Dominum!'_

“So, tell me, what happened the last Christmas you spent with your brother?” John felt tipsy and therefore reckless enough to venture off into Sherlock's past. They leaned against the window sill, shoulder to shoulder and Sherlock observed their guests while John alternately eyed his cup and his flatmate.

“I got a chemistry set and used it to spike the punch with home-made LSD. It was quite a sight.”

“LSD? Other kids just amuse themselves with the classic oxyhydrogen reaction but, of course, you had to cook amphetamines.” John chuckled as he shook his head.

“It's an alkaloid, belonging to the ergoline family. Actually, it's an ergoline derivate which can be extracted from a common grain fungus.” Sherlock tried to explain but when John just looked back at him rather blankly, he sighed “Never mind. The evening ended with Mycroft running naked through the grounds, reciting Greek prose, while my parents set fire to the Christmas tree in some kind of pagan ritual. After that, I had to spent the holidays at boarding school.”

“Can't imagine why.” John sounded equally impressed and horrified before setting down his mug, frowning dubiously.

Mrs Hudson went down to her own flat at about 10:30 and shortly afterwards Molly and Mike decided to share a cab, as they were both on duty the next day. Lestrade and Mycroft were sitting on the sofa and Sherlock's brother had actually shed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, seeming unusually relaxed while talking quite uninhibited (of course, Lestrade, being a civil servant, had signed the official's secrets act).

John and Sherlock retreated to the kitchen, starting to collect empty glasses and plates and arranging them on the worktop. But then they got sidetracked by each others proximity and instead of doing the dishes, they started to do something else instead, which involved ferocious groping and kissing against their fridge. As John was grinding against Sherlock's compliant body, he was dimly aware of Lestrade strolling into the kitchen in search for another cold beer. As the DI quickly and correctly observe that access to said beverage was blocked at the moment by 6 ft. 1 of panting consulting detective he simply went back into the living room, suggesting a change of venue to Sherlock's brother, who murmured something about the Korean elections (again) before giving in.

The brother's smirked at one another as they both wished each other a very happy Christmas and then the door closed and John and Sherlock were alone.

“How much mulled wine did you drink?” John inquired.

“Not enough to deal with the fact that my brother just copped off with Graham.”

“Greg.”

“Seriously?”

“Please, not again.” John leaned in and kissed Sherlock just a bit more. “So, what next?” He mumbled against Sherlock's pliant lips after a while. “Are we just necking a bit more in the kitchen, or...?”

“Or what?” Sherlock's voice was deep and intriguing.

“Well, it's up to you.”

“Ok, my bedroom, then.”

John was actually take aback a bit. He hadn't been sure how the evening would progress, but this escalation was quite unexpected.

“You sure?”

“Quite.”

In for a penny...

\----------

… in for 132 pounds of lanky consulting detective. 

In bed, Sherlock is not shy at all. Having made up his mind as to what he wants, he's out to get it. They strip each other, giggling at first but soon the laughter dies as John strokes his fingertips over Sherlock's scars (including the track marks on his arms) before Sherlock explores the wound on John's shoulder with lips and tongue.

This leads to more kissing, tentative at first but quickly getting rather passionat. Soon Sherlock's fingers slip beneath the waistband of John's pants, stroking his aching cock. John gasps at the contact of Sherlock's slightly calloused fingertips with his delicate skin and his breathing hitches as Sherlock's thumb runs over his wet slid, effectively smearing precome all over his shaft.

“I want to taste you. May I taste you?” Sherlock asks and his unusual politeness is perhaps even hotter than his actual request.

“Be my guest.” John sighs but when Sherlock sinks down onto his knees in front of him, starting to mouth his cock through the fabric of his boxer briefs, John's knees nearly buckle. He has to sit on the bed, lying back, bracing himself on his elbows.

He watches Sherlock nudge his hips until he lifts them long enough for his pants to be pulled down and both of them gasp as John's fat cock springs free. Sherlock circles the base with his thumb and index finger and even his long digits are barely able to meet.

“Fucking hell!” Sherlock whispers, impressed and enthralled. “This will be more fun than I expected.”

“Do not elaborate.” John orders and Sherlock gratefully keeps his deductions regarding John's anatomy to himself.

There follow quick strokes and messy kisses and then Sherlock licks over the head of John's prick, once, twice, before swallowing as much as he can take (which is a quite astounding extent). Sherlock seems to have no gag reflex and sucks with abandon until John feels the head of his cock bump against the back of Sherlock's throat.

“God, Sherlock, stop. Stop!” John shouts. Sherlock pulls off, looking up at John through his dark lashes from hooded eyes.

John rakes his hand through Sherlock's curls, caressing them, pulling him up before nearly ripping Sherlock's fancy silk boxers off. A very naked Sherlock straddles John, aligning their cocks and starts to pump them hard until John begs Sherlock once again to stop.

“Please, I want to fuck you and if you carry on like this, it will be over way to soon.”

“Yes, please, John...”

“Do you have lube?”

Sherlock bites his lower lip, then shakes his head.

“Shit! Fuck! We can't...," John's the voice of reason.

“Wait!” Sherlock suddenly jumps off the bed and leaves the room, only to return a moment later with a tub of lard.

“God almighty! Are you sure?”

“Well, it's the best I can come up with at short notice, so it's either this or… we do it without any lubricant and take a trip to A&E afterwards.”

“Well, you can be very convincing.”

“So I've been told.”

It's a bit strange at first but then the whole notion of pushing anything up Sherlock's lovely butt has been off limits mere hours ago, so John tries not to think too much about it They decide for Sherlock to settle on elbows and knees, as this would give John the best access and the angle proves perfect for John's fingers to brush over Sherlock's prostate again and again, making him squirm and writhe.

In the end, the lard is as good as any greasy substance, slicking the way up nicely and when John finally pushes in, it's so tight and hot that he nearly passes out, regardless of their additives.

He takes his time and goes slow but Sherlock – the impatient twat! – pushes suddenly back and down, stifling his cry with his fist. John has to grab his hips and hold him in a death grip to stop the lunatic from seriously hurting himself. Of course Sherlock huffs in annoyance at these precautions but then nearly screams in pain as John thrusts just once and not even especially deep.

It takes ages for John to get fully inside. By the time he's seated up to the hilt in Sherlock's body, the man beneath him literally sobs. John tries to soothe him, stroking his back, pressing kisses between his protruding shoulder blades and slowly, oh so slowly, Sherlock relaxes and gives in to the sensation of this massive intrusion. 

John has no idea if Sherlock has done something like this before. He's so tight it seems impossible for him to engage in this kind of sexual activity very often but he's a very attractive bloke with a drug habit, so the chances of him being a virgin tend to be quite slim. Considering the implications, John decides to abandon this train of thought right here, as it won't lead to any good.

Instead he murmurs: “I'm going to fuck you now.”

At first, Sherlock tenses up even more but with every thrust, it gets easier. Sherlock accepts the invasion and, after a while, the pain gives way to pleasure, as John's cock finds his prostate, brushing over it relentlessly. Sherlock moans, fisting the sheets and as John sets a steady rhythm, he's eventually able to reach around and stroke Sherlock's abandoned, leaking cock.

John's tugging fist combined with the deep thrusts up his arse send Sherlock over the edge quite soon. He squirms and pants as he comes and John milks him furiously, enjoying the clamping muscles of Sherlock's rectum around his cock very much.

As John looks down, the sight of Sherlock's spasming sphincter, stretched to the max, is finally enough. A few more deep thrusts and John comes as well, spilling his load deep inside Sherlock. He collapses over Sherlock's back afterwards, licking up salty sweat between Sherlock's shoulder blades before biting gently into his shoulder, just because he can and is allowed to do so now.

They both have to get their breaths back before being able to move again. They stay like this for some minutes until John rolls off, pulling Sherlock away from the wet spot beneath him, turning him onto his side, spooning him from behind.

“God, that was... incredible.” John sighs contently.

Sherlock's eyes are still closed. John gently strokes his biceps, his flanks, his hip and upper thigh.

“Hey, you still with me?”

Sherlock just nods, once.

“Everything all right?” John, despite his post-orgasmic bliss, starts to feel uncomfortable.

“Yes.” Sherlock croaks out. “But I was just wondering … about my brother and Gavin.”

“Greg!”

“Whatever. You think they've been up to … the same?”

“I seriously refuse to acknowledge your brother's sex life while in bed with you.”

“Wise decision. It's just, you were talking about families and the importance of being together for Christmas and I have to say you did a marvellous job...”

“But?”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, then continuous very carefully: “Your parents...?”

“Leave it be. It's not… they wouldn't understand. They never did.”

“Ok. Fair enough.” Sherlock pulls John's hand over his chest and interlaces their fingers. “Merry Christmas, John Watson.”

John presses a kiss to the nape of Sherlock's neck. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
